After a crap-tastic day which finished off a crap-tastic week of what is proving to be a crap-tastic month in a crap-tastic year, I had two options in front of me to deal with my misery this evening. Go home and drink, or go home and run. As much as that warm, luscious glass of red wine just beckoned my name, I dug deep and decided to make what I believed was the wiser decision.
Like the wind.
It felt good. I ran 3.3 miles in 33 minutes. I haven’t managed to run a 10 minute mile outside in a long time. I’ve consistently been doing it at the gym but it’s easier to keep an aggressive pace on a treadmill. Apparently all I need is some bad news and self pity to get my feet moving faster.
Now there’s always the risk that those endorphins will wear right off and I’ll just lapse back into my misery. Better not take any chances. Wine and Indiana Jones. Coming right up. No way the blues can get a hold of me now. Mmm, vino. At least I ran first, right?